When You Finish Me
by futurelost
Summary: After John suffers a loss, Sherlock and John begin to view each other differently once past secrets are revealed. John/Sherlock, M for death  no major characters , eventual gayness, and other things in the future.
1. Accident

Days when John was off work and an overly excited Sherlock was out of the house tended to be both boring and relaxing days. He got tired of facing death, murder, sick people – both mentally and physically, and utter chaos every day. He had gotten bored of normalcy after the war, and now he found he craved it from time to time.

The doctor's job was only there to fill his need for being a doctor and to provide some calm within Sherlock's chaos, but it often failed. The first few weeks of working there were blissfully boring; only children with coughs and hypochondriacs. One night he was called in for help when the hospital was short staffed in emergency. They knew he was a war doctor, and they had no problem calling him in. After that night, the hospital staff had begun calling him into emergency more often to the point where he was scheduled there twice a week.

Tonight, however, his phone was off. The world was a mess outside the flat walls, but John was at peace in his flat. He had a bad movie on the television, tea beside him, and a box of Chinese in his lap waiting to be eaten. The flat seemed empty without Sherlock pacing, experimenting, or ranting. John pushed that thought out of his mind and focussed on the food he was about to enjoy.

A knock at the door distracted him.

John sighed, and merely looked at the door. He didn't want to deal with people right now. He wanted to be alone and enjoy his one night of peace. It was the only night he had off from everything in a long time, and he was sure that it would be the last to come for many days. The person on the other side knocked again.

"John?"

Harry's voice. John set his take-away aside, and hurried to the door. He rarely saw Harry, and he only talked to her a few times a month. He had mentioned his new address once in a feeble attempt to subtlety get Harry to pop by at least once. John and Harry never really got along much growing up. Harry was against the war, and the distance between the two siblings grew even more once John enrolled for the army. The drinking made the distance grow miles apart. All that said, John could hear the tears in Harry's voice through the door. The brother inside him was made him get off the couch to see his sister; to try and fix what had upset her.

"Harry," John opened the door wide. His sister was in front of him, a puddle of tears. Normally by this time he could smell vodka or gin radiating off her, but tonight was different. She was stone cold sober, and she looked a mess. "What's wrong?"

Harry sniffed, "Its Mom, John," Her voice cracked. "She was in an accident." 

John felt his heart drop. "Oh, God," He whispered. "Is she-"

"She died," Harry's voice was nearly a whisper. "She's gone." 

John felt his throat tighten and tears prick his eyes. He reached for his sister, and wrapped his arms around her small frame. She was so much smaller than he was. He could never get over that fact. He felt her arms wrap around his body. Her body was shaking in his. John kissed her forehead, and buried his face into her shoulder. He let himself go, not caring that Mrs. Hudson was at the bottom of the stairs watching the scene unfold.

"I tried to call," Harry managed to say between her tears.

"My phone's off," John immediately felt sick. His phone was off. He could have known earlier. He could have been there. He was a doctor; he could have done something. He could have at least been with his family instead of with bad food and even worse television.

Harry sniffed, and released John. She looked at him with watery eyes. "Dad's at the hospital filling out shit. The doctors said that if you wanted to see her before they-" Harry waved her hand in a circular fashion instead of speaking.

John wiped his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Could... could you come with me?"

Harry smiled, "Of course. Get your coat, it's cold outside."

The ride to the morgue was silent. Harry was holding John's hand as an attempt to keep both of them together. John was trying not to be sick in the cab as he thought of his mom. He hadn't spoken to her in about two months. He was close to his mother growing up. Not quite a "momma's boy", but he certainly loved and respected his mother. He imagined her face in his mind. Always a smile on her face, eyes as big as the moon, laugh lines, surprisingly good teeth. He felt fresh tears about to fall when the cab came to a halt.

John paid the cabbie and got out of the cab. The cold air was numbing to his body. He waited for Harry to be by his side before he started to walk into the morgue. He felt the numbing sensation of the cold as he walked into the morgue with his sister's arm entwined with his.

"Don't we need to talk to someone?" Harry asked as John took a left after walking down the main hallway.

"Yes, but she's probably around here somewhere," John sighed. He kept his eyes peeled for Molly as he walked the familiar hallways.

"Are you here that often that they let you wander around?" Harry whispered as they passed a technician that gave John a friendly nod despite his visible distress.

John felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, I'm a regular." 

Harry tightened the grip she had on John's arm, actually using both her arms to hold onto her brother. John sniffed a few more times in a pathetic attempt to regain composure. He still felt ready to be sick at any given moment. Why had he turned his phone off? He could have said goodbye.

A flash of reddish brown hair down the hallway caught his attention. "Molly!" He nearly shouted. Molly quickly turned on her heel and looked at John with a smile on her face. "I need your help," He said as she hurried to him.

"Sure, sure, what is it?" Her eyes grew wide, clearly wishing it was a favour for Sherlock. The poor girl was so blind to Sherlock's lack of interest. "Oh, hello!" She smiled at Harry.

"Molly, has there been a body admitted in the past..." He looked at Harry for a time to confirm. The sick feeling grew even worse; he didn't what time his own mother had died.

"Hour," Harry's voice tightened once again.

"Female. Early fifties," John said.

"Uh, yes, actually," She looked at the clipboard in her hand. "A Mrs. Margret Wat..." Her eyes grew larger. She looked at John, then Molly, then her clipboard, then back to John. "Oh, no," She whispered. "I'm sorry." 

"Where is she?" John asked, feeling his own throat begin to constrict itself.

"Follow me," Molly nodded sadly, and turned around to lead them. Harry was shaking again. John squeezed one of her hands with his free hand, and felt his eyes prick again. He could have said goodbye. John mentally beat himself up as Molly led them downstairs to the storing facility. John knew the route all too well, and usually he wasn't bothered with seeing dead bodies in the morgue. He just felt numb as he entered the morgue.

As soon as he entered the large room, his eyes were on his mother. She was laying on an examination table in a black body bag. He knew it was her even before Molly unzipped the bag. "John," Harry whispered.

"What?" John never took his eyes off Molly's hands, unzipping the zipper and revealing his mother's face.

"Where's the bathroom? I'm going to be-" 

"Third door on the left," He whispered. He felt his sister's warmth leave his side, and Molly looked up for a moment. "What happened?" He walked towards Molly slowly.

"Drunk driver," Molly said quietly as John observed his mother's face. Blank expression, paler than death; he didn't want to remember this as his mother.

John sniffed. "What exactly happened?"

Molly flipped through her clipboard. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," John took a deep breath in. Disinfectant filled his nose, and the sick feeling returned.

"She was pinned between the car and a pole. Broke her spine and ruptured her spleen. Internal bleeding was the official cause of death," Molly said quietly, quickly.

John knelt down beside the table, and looked at his mother's profile. He could have said goodbye. He could have been with her while she was at the hospital. She would have been in insufferable pain, and it would have been brief, but he could have seen her. John rested his arms on the table, and dropped his head in them. He let the tears that had been building up in the cab and the way to this point out. He felt Molly put an awkward hand on his shoulder, and then quickly recoil. He heard her heels click their way out of the room.

John stayed like that for a few more moments before lifting his head. He brushed a few stray hairs off her forehead. She was still a bit warm. He could almost feel the last lingering bits of life left in his mother. She was officially gone, but a faint light was still there. "I'm sorry," He whispered between sobs. "I'm so sorry I couldn't help," He stroked her cheek. "I'm sorry."

He heard the doors open, and he looked to them. Harry was walking back in, her face fresh with tears as well. Within a moment her arms were around him, and they were sobbing into one another's shoulders like the scared children they were.


	2. Muffin Man

An eerie silence in the flat made Sherlock curious. The TV was on, but the entire flat was still. Sherlock hung his coat on the peg in the wall. John's coat was gone and so were his shoes. Sherlock eyed the flat, tapping his fingers together slowly. The TV was playing infomercials and a carton of uneaten Chinese food was beside the couch.

John must have left in a hurry. Sherlock walked to the desk, and opened the second drawer. He pulled out a box of nicotine patches. He rolled up his sleeve, and stuck two patches onto his skin. He leaned back on the desk, and observed. John's phone was sitting on the arm of the couch, turned off. Something in the flat didn't feel right to Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on the couch where John had sat hours before. He turned the television off, and stared at the wall. The place he was sitting still had a lingering scent of John. The thought of his friend made Sherlock smile. John was someone who Sherlock could never quite pinpoint. Whenever Sherlock thought he had John pegged, John did something out of character that stumped Sherlock. It was both annoying and fascinating.

Sherlock blinked. He tried to remember the last day he had slept. He couldn't remember. Today had been a long day, but he was not tired. Sherlock had spent the morning doing experiments at the morgue out of boredom. The afternoon was spent flipping through unsolved case files, and solving four of them before Lestrade told him to go home.

Sherlock eyed the ledge on the fireplace. His skull was gone. Sherlock felt annoyance flare up under his skin. He enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's company; he spent the few days John wasn't home from his family Christmas with Mrs. Hudson since she had no family. It annoyed him that after eleven months Mrs. Hudson was still taking his skull.

Sherlock walked out of the flat, and down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He knocked on the door, and wondered to himself what time it was. It occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson would have probably been asleep, but he wanted his skull back. The missing skull may had been what felt wrong in the flat. Sherlock knocked again on the door.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson opened the door out of breath. "Oh, my dear, I thought you may have been John."

"No, I am me," Sherlock walked into Mrs. Hudson's flat, and looked around. It smelt of baking and medicinal herbs. "Where is my skull?"

"Has John arrived home yet?" Mrs. Hudson shut the door and scurried deeper into her flat.

"No. Where is my skull?" Sherlock repeated.

"Under the sink, "Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen with a tray of muffins and tea. "Have you heard any news from John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock walked past her to the kitchen.

"No, why?" Sherlock crouched onto the floor and opened up the sink cupboard. Beside the dish soap and the jar filled with sponges was Sherlock's skull. He stood up, and looked at Mrs. Hudson who was silently staring at her tray full of goodies.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I... you didn't hear."

"Hear what?" Sherlock held his skull in both hands, moving his thumbs over the familiar surface.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. "John's... his mother passed away today. I saw his sister come up the stairs. I didn't know who she was so I popped my head out to see, and John welcomed her so I figured it out. His mom died only this evening. The poor man. He looked shattered, absolutely devastated," She shook her head. "I just made some muffins for him and you as well. I don't know what else I could do."

Sherlock felt his mouth slowly part. He cleared his throat, and tightened his grip on the skull in his hands. "My... oh," Sherlock managed to get out. He wasn't sure what to think. He had never personally dealt with a parent dying. Abandoned by a parent was different than death. _John._ Sherlock felt pain for his friend.

"Yes, dear, I know," Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly at Sherlock. "Would you be a dear and take this to your flat? I can't imagine John would want to cook anything. My hips acting up," She motioned for Sherlock to take the tray from her.

"Oh, yes, sure," Sherlock carefully set the skull down beside a lopsided muffin, and took the tray from the elderly woman. "I'll make sure John eats something when he gets back."

"I'm off to bed," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Give John a hug from me. Tell him to come around if he needs anything," She patted Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock made his way out of Mrs. Hudson's flat. He was unusually silent and paid no attention to Mrs. Hudson rushing him out of her home.

John. Sherlock felt a strange feeling in his stomach. His first reaction was to go out and find John. He wanted to make sure John was alright. His second reaction was to stop thinking irrationally. He had no idea where John was, and what could he do to help? Sherlock wasn't a miracle worker. He couldn't bring loved ones back from the dead.

Sherlock entered his flat distracted. He kicked the door shut, and set the tray of food down on the coffee table. He paid little attention to the lopsided papers he set the tray on. He took his old friend off the muffin tray, and felt the skull in his hands. Sherlock began to pace, his mind working at light speed.

_Harry must have come to tell John the news. Sober or not was mildly irrelevant. She clearly couldn't get a hold of John, which was due to his cell phone turned off on the arm of the sofa. It was too late when Harry finally got to John. Harry got to say goodbye, and John never got the chance. _

Sherlock set the skull back down in its home place on top of the fireplace, and walked back to the couch. He wanted to turn on the cell phone, to see if he was right about his theory, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He leaned back in the worn sofa, and let out a sigh.

Sherlock just wanted John to be alright. He knew John would be an emotional wreck, as are most people when death hits. The feeling of caring about someone made Sherlock feel tired.

* * *

Sherlock looked up when he heard the door open sometime later. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting on the couch staring at the fire across the room, but sun was beginning to peak from the curtains. John appeared in the doorway looking like the mess Sherlock predicted. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his appearance one of misery.

"Hi," Sherlock broke the silence in the flat. John slid off his shoes.

"Hi," John's voice was hoarse.

"Mrs. Hudson made muffins and tea," Sherlock motioned for the tray on the coffee table.

John walked over, his hands shoved in his pockets. "How long has the tea been out?"

"Since I got back here. Probably six hours, give or take," Sherlock shrugged.

John's lips tugged at a smile. "I guess she told you what happened."

"She did," Sherlock nodded. John sat down on the couch beside Sherlock. Sherlock looked at his friend. John was staring at the muffins on the table. "I really wouldn't eat one. It smelt like her special herbs in there."

John smirked. "I'm not that hungry."

The two sat in a grave silence for some time. Sherlock wasn't sure what to say to John who had far too much on his mind. Sherlock could see the confusion on John's face, the weariness, the grief. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. It was the most common thing Sherlock heard people say to one another when someone was facing grief.

John barely registered it. "I just am thinking about how I could have done something."

Sherlock eyed John's shaking hands. "They wouldn't have let you operate on your own mother. Emotions would have gotten in the way."

John shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Not everyone can ignore their emotions, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his chest sting, but he ignored it. "I'm not saying that you should not feel your emotions. Imagine, John, just think about if you were working in emergency and your mother came in. Imagine she died on your table no matter what you did. Just image what that would do to you," Sherlock explained.

John was silent. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was a good or bad silence. "I'm going to get some sleep," John finally said. He slowly got off the couch, and stretched his arms above his head.

"Probably for the best," Sherlock agreed. He remained sitting on the couch as John moved towards the stairs. Sherlock watched John walk away, and noticed a slight limp with his walk. "John," Sherlock said.

"Hmm?" John turned around.

"If you need to talk, I can sometimes be tolerable," Sherlock shrugged.

John smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock."

* * *

**A.N.**

I'm glad you guys are liking the story so far! You're all the best. **  
**


	3. Experiments

John hoped the entire thing had been a dream. He woke up with his head pounding and his body feeling fatigued. For a moment he thought it was just an awful dream caused by drinking out of a cup Sherlock had experimented in earlier that day. When John sat up and got a look of himself in the mirror, he knew it had all happened. His eyes were puffy from the excessive amounts of crying, and he could see the entire day's events flashing before his eyes too vividly for it to be a side effect of an experiment.

John tugged on a pair of sweatpants over his shorts, and walked out of his room. It was unusually warm in the flat, and John couldn't have been bothered to find a shirt. He trudged down the stairs, his mind wandering. He no longer felt like crying. He must have cried enough yesterday for two days. He felt heavy and numb as he walked. As he walked past the couch, John grabbed his cell phone from the arm of the couch where it hadn't moved in hours.

"'morning," He said to Sherlock as he passed into the kitchen.

"Morning," Sherlock was distracted. He had hooked up two of Mrs. Hudson's muffins up to a rather large potato. Plastic tubes ran through the muffins to the potato, which ran up to three test tubes filled with different coloured liquids. Sherlock was jotting down notes as colour passed through the muffins a different colour as it entered it.

John didn't bother to ask. He had no idea what Sherlock's experiments did other than keep him entertained. He put the kettle on, and pulled out two mugs from the cupboard. He began to prepare the mugs normally. It occurred to him that he was going along his morning routine as if his mother was still alive. Sure, he felt awful but it wasn't affecting his tea making abilities. He held onto the counter, and shook his head. Surely grieving meant you didn't leave the bed for a week.

"How are you doing?" Sherlock asked. John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock hadn't looked up from his notebook.

"Shitty," John answered truthfully. "What are you doing?" Curiosity always got the best of him.

Sherlock used his pen as a pointer. "I'm measuring how the chemical balance of these chemicals change when passed through a variety of starches." John knew he was getting the incredibly dumbed down version which he silently appreciated. His mind was too hazy to try and figure out Sherlock had just said. "How was your sleep?" Sherlock asked with a slight smirk on your face.

John took a sip of his tea. "Aright, I guess. Why?"

"Curiosity, John," Sherlock said. He made a note about the blue chemical changing green when it passed through the brown muffin. "You've been asleep for 27 hours and 23 minutes," Sherlock noted.

John blinked. "What?"

"You came home at 7:05 yesterday morning. It's currently 10:28 this morning," Sherlock said. He barely looked up from his notes he was re-reading. He grabbed his mug of tea and drank without his eyes ever leaving his handwriting.

John sat in his chair in disbelief. He certainly didn't feel well rested; he felt like he just got hit by a bus. "Didn't anybody call for me?"

"Yes, but I told them you were asleep," Sherlock said simply.

"You never thought to wake me up?" John cried.

Sherlock scratched some words off his paper. "They said they'd call back."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. My mother just died-" John choked on the words as he said them aloud for the first time. It was like it was finally true now that he said it without Harry or his father around. "Some family may have needed to talk to me about," John couldn't finish. Sherlock had finally looked up from his paper. John sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "I just wish you could have woken me up. It could of been important."

John tried to not notice Sherlock's eyes on him. He could feel them burning into his skin. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock finally said. John's head shot up. He had never heard Sherlock apologize sincerely before. "I just assumed you'd need sleep. The numbers are still all in the phone if you want to see if it was someone important," Sherlock said quietly and quickly. John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock's. John had learned how to tell when Sherlock was bullshitting him or not. Sherlock probably knew that John knew, but he never changed the dead giveaways from when he was lying and when he was being truthful. From where he was sitting across the table, John could see Sherlock was being honest with him. Sherlock even broke the eye contact first.

"It's... fine," John finally said slowly like an idiot. Sherlock scribbled more into his notebook, and took a lighter out from his pocket. "Are you smoking again?" John asked.

"No," He flicked the lighter so a bright flame emerged. He held it under one of the test tubes and waited until the liquid in the tube bubbled. He withdrew the lighter, took a sip of tea, and wrote down a bit more words. John took a drink of his own tea, and held his phone in one hand. He knew he needed to turn it on and face the messages, but he didn't want to.

John's thumb hovered over the power button, and he slowly pressed the button down. The phone did its stupid jingle, flashing animation, and then lit onto the main screen. John waited, and felt the phone in his hand buzz a number of times in a row. John sighed, and started at the first text.

_John where are you? Something's happened?_

_xxHarry_

The next few were all along the same lines. John felt bile rising in his throat as he went through the 21 missed texts from the past few days. They were all from family members asking where he was or if he had any idea what was going on. They weren't upsetting texts, but John still felt sick.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John set his phone down, and looked at Sherlock. "Yeah, I'm fine," John downed the rest of his tea in two gulps, and set the mug down. "I should probably get dressed, head to my Dad's house. Figure out what is going on."

"Of course," Sherlock poked the muffin, urging the chemical to pass through faster.

John nodded, almost wanting Sherlock to stop him from getting up from the table. He wasn't sure why he wanted Sherlock to, but he did. Sherlock never glanced up from his muffin experiment. John got away from the table and headed upstairs.


	4. Funeral

Four days had passed. Sherlock had solved two cases in those four days without John's assistance. John had been busy dealing with family and planning a funeral. Sherlock had come home to an empty flat every night and when John did resurface from his father's house he went straight to bed. Sherlock was not one who knew how to cope with death and had to research in the internet on ways to be helpful for when John was around. Although he would never admit it and would deny it if anybody asked him, Sherlock found himself missing the doctor's presence in his life.

The day of the funeral was quiet. Sherlock was trying to finish a book he had started sometime around 2004 but never finished. Seven minutes into reading it, he understood why he had stopped years ago. The book was dreadfully predictable, and Sherlock didn't want to waste his day to a book where he knew that the architect build the buildings around his own mass graves. Dreadfully dull. Sherlock sighed, and tossed the book onto the floor. These were the days where starting smoking again seemed appealing. Glancing at the clock, Sherlock squinted. It was nearly four o'clock. The funeral started at four o'clock. John was still upstairs pacing.

Sherlock walked upstairs to John's room. He could hear the creak of John's mattress springs. "John?" He knocked on the door. There was no answer. Sherlock sighed, and opened the door. He hated when people didn't answer him.

John was sitting on the edge of his bed. He was fiddling with cufflinks, but other than that he was fully dressed for a funeral. Sherlock observed John's face. Tired, a bit pale, and his eyes were wet. "It's nearly four," Sherlock said.

"I know, I know," John groaned. "These stupid things..." He trailed off, unsuccessfully trying at his right cuff. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He walked over to the bed and sat down beside John. Without asking, Sherlock took hold of John's wrist and pushed John's hands aside. He began to fasten the cufflinks for his friends. "Thank you."

"I would have assumed that a man in his late thirties would know how to fasten his own cufflink," Sherlock smirked again.

John softly chuckled. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"You rarely do," Sherlock smoothed the wrinkle in John's shirt. "Today is an exception, circumstances concerning."

John furrowed his brow. "Was that a compliment or an insult?"

"Whichever you like more," Sherlock shrugged. John chuckled again, and the men sat in a silence. "You're going to be late."

John nodded slowly. "Can I ask a favour of you?"

"Depends," Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John turned to face the detective. Sherlock could tell the man hadn't slept more than four hours in the past twenty-four hours. By the subtle scratch mark by his temple, Sherlock could see that John was beginning to grow annoyed with his current hair length. He craved his military cut. "Can you come with me today?"

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon?"

"I don't know if I can go by myself," John admitted.

"Your family-"

"Will be there, yes, but they have all been depending on me to be the man with the answers for how to deal with what has happened. I don't know how to cope. I don't know if I can do it by myself," John said rapidly.

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. "I... your family doesn't know me."

"I know you," John was nearly begging. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a tense breath. "I'm not good around people mourning death, John. It's far too emotional and people crave a lot of physical contact. I don't know if I'm-"

"I need you there," John let out an exasperated sigh, cutting Sherlock off for a second time. "And I'm already late, and you're already in all black," John pointed out Sherlock's attire. "Please, Sherlock," John said quietly. "Please."

Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He hadn't been to a funeral since his late Aunt Marguerite when he was seven, and even then he hated funerals. People were crying and there was a lot of hugging. People remembered only the good, and not the bad. He looked once more at John. The man looked truly upset. "I'm not giving people I don't know hugs."

John smiled. "I don't expect you to."

* * *

Apparently funerals started twenty minutes late. When Sherlock and John had finally arrived, it was quarter after and the funeral was nowhere near ready. Sherlock remained close to John as they made their way into the church, and as they joined the rest of the attendees. Sherlock kept near John as family members hugged him, shook his hand, offered their condolences, asked about the war, and cried into his suit jacket. Every now and again John would look back to make sure that Sherlock was still close by.

Sherlock watched John's family. The men were all relatively short, none passing more than six foot. They all had a stocky build, and Sherlock detected that a few were army doctors like John. They would give him reassuring pats and mention things Sherlock didn't understand about war that they either both laughed at or grimaced. The women were lithesome little things that were all exceptionally emotional.

As the funeral was about to get underway, John turned to Sherlock. "See? You haven't needed to hug anybody yet."

"Yes, and I appreciate you respecting the terms of our agreement," Sherlock nodded. John smiled, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. He hadn't made a joke, and the occasion wasn't one of particular humour.

"Come on. You're sitting with me at the front," John motioned at the front pew.

"Isn't that for family?" Sherlock asked. "I'm not family."

"I don't care," John shrugged. Sherlock followed John to the front of the church, and Sherlock noticed that various family members were giving him strange looks. They probably didn't know who he was or why he was there, and especially why he was sitting with John at the front. Sherlock wasn't sure why either.

"Dad, Harry," John nodded at the two people sitting in the right pew. A man incredibly similar looking to John with an added twenty four years and fifteen pounds was sitting next to a pretty woman in her early thirties with similar eyes and hair colour to John, but with a slightly puffy complexion. "This is Sherlock."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sherlock said sincerely.

"Thank you," John's father said. "I've heard a great deal about you and your work?" Sherlock glanced at John. "Not from him. Old cop buddies. They say your a bit crazy," Sherlock saw John smile. "But brilliant."

"Well, thank you," Sherlock said.

"It's nice to finally see you in the flesh," Harry piped up. "I've heard so much about you."

"Same to you," Sherlock nodded at Harry. John sat next to his father, and Sherlock beside him. He watched as John gave his father a hug, and reached to give his sister one as well. Sherlock felt out of place.

The funeral procession was nothing spectacular. The priest said the same words as he had said at hundreds of other funerals. Sherlock could hear sniffling throughout the church. Various family members went to the pew to tell stories about John's mother, Margret. Sherlock even listened to one when John stood up and told one about how supportive his mother was about him joining the army as many Watson men had. Sherlock even felt himself smile as John told the procession about the home movies she would film and sent to Afghanistan and how they would end up embarrassing John to his fellow platoon members. One in particular earned John the nickname of "Snoodle Oodle".

As John sat down, his father gave him a pat on the shoulders. Sherlock could see that he was holding back tears that would inevitably work their way out sooner or later. John settled beside him, shaking slightly. Sherlock could see how tense his hands were. He was trying and failing to keep his composure.

Some odd force lifted Sherlock's hand off his thigh and set it on top of John's shaking hand. Sherlock was looking at it with just as much confusion as John was. He wasn't sure why he had just done that, but it felt like he just should have. Sherlock looked at John, who was looking at Sherlock with a mixture of confusion and profound sadness.

Sherlock leaned closer so his ear was beside John's. "You'll be alright," He whispered. As an added reassurance, Sherlock squeezed John's hand.

John blinked a few times, tears gathering at the edges with each blink. "Thank you," He replied hoarsely. He maneuvered their hands so his fingers were entwined with the detective's. He kept a tight grip on Sherlock's hand for the rest of the funeral, as if scared to let him go.

* * *

It was dark when they arrived back home to Baker Street. Sherlock had stayed close to John at the family gathering afterwards, always within arms reach. He had made small talk with various family members who all seemed like nice, decent people. For some reason it made Sherlock glad to know John had a good family. Perhaps it was because his own was such a discombobulated mess.

They walked into the flat in silence. John immediately went to the kitchen to start preparing tea out of habit. Instead of sitting down or pacing, Sherlock followed John to the kitchen. He was putting teabags into two mugs, sniffing occasionally. Throughout the entire day John hadn't cried.

"How are you doing?" Sherlock asked from his spot leaning on the doorframe.

"I've never heard you ask about a person's feelings so much in one day," John almost smiled. "Are you ill?"

"I'm fine. You're avoiding the question," Sherlock kept his eyes on John.

John silently lifted and dropped the teabags a few times from the box. "I don't know how I feel," John admitted. "I'm devastated. I'm mad. I'm heartbroken. I'm stressed. I'm confused."

"All normal when dealing with death," Sherlock said.

John poured the boiling water into the mugs. "Normal, but hard to cope with," He set the kettle and looked at Sherlock before he finished the tea. "I'll manage. It'll take a while, but it will happen."

Sherlock nodded as the satisfactory answer. He watched John finish making the tea, and then walked over to his friend. "As long as you're alright," Sherlock leaned on the counter. "Snoodle Oodle," Sherlock grinned.

John laughed, and hit Sherlock's arm. "Shut your mouth, Holmes. Didn't your mother have any stupid nicknames for you?"

Sherlock blinked. "No, not really."

John handed Sherlock his tea. "Well, at least you don't have everyone at Scotland Yard calling you, I don't know, Twat Waffle or something."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. John quickly joined him. Tea splashed onto Sherlock's shirt, and he yelped at the sensation. He set the tea down on the counter and grabbed a tea towel. "Twat Waffle," Sherlock repeated, pressing the towel to his sleeve. "That is quite something."

John set his own tea down, and dropped an extra teaspoon of sugar into his mixture. Sherlock watched him. He still had tears at the corners of his eyes that he wasn't letting fall. The same sort of force returned to Sherlock, and before he could comprehend what he was doing, he had his arms tightly wrapped around John.

Sherlock opened his mouth in surprise, wondering why he was hugging John. He didn't like holding people. He felt heat rush to his cheeks. John would think he had completely lost it by now...

Until John hugged him back twice as hard. Sherlock nearly gasped for air as the older man held him extremely tightly. He could feel John's surprisingly soft hair prick his neck, and he felt John's body shake under his arms. It wasn't until he felt dampness on his shirt did he realize what John was doing. The man was finally crying.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable again, but didn't pull away from his friend. Instead, he ran his hand soothingly up and down John's back and whispered that he'd be fine into his ear. Even after John had stopped crying, the two men didn't let go of one another.

* * *

**a.n.**

So I lied about updating on Thursday. So sorry about that.  
I could pull the "Oh, I have finals this week" excuse but... I just did.  
Enjoy! **  
**


	5. Old Friends

It was Sherlock who finally told John to get out of the house. He had returned to work a week after the funeral to find him "momentarily" placed back in clinic work. He knew that his supervisors didn't want him in surgery, and he was kind of glad he wasn't, but he was angry nobody warned him he was back to dealing with hypochondriacs and children who wiped their snot on his coat. He would come home, deal with a phone call from a family member or two, order take out, and be in bed before eleven. When John suggested Thai food instead of their normal Chinese place, Sherlock told him to grab his coat and get off the sofa.

As John followed wordlessly beside Sherlock down the London street, he felt an new-found appreciation for the man beside him. Sherlock had been a tremendous help while John was dealing with his loss. He never expected Sherlock to be sympathetic or agree to come to the funeral. He really never expected Sherlock to give him a hug or hold on to John after he started to cry. John was a bit embarrassed about losing it completely into Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock never mentioned the scene after that night.

"You're thinking," Sherlock said.

"I tend to," John nodded.

"Yes, but your being noisy," Sherlock sighed. John looked at him with confusion. "Facially noisy. It's all over your face."

"Oh," John couldn't help but grin. "Sorry, then. I'll stop."

"What is making your face to obnoxiously busy?" Sherlock asked.

John chuckled a bit. "Just thinking about how helpful you've been since everything happened."

Sherlock wasn't expected an answer like that. John noticed him grin a bit, and look at his feet. He had made Sherlock Holmes feel modest. "Oh. Well, you're welcome. I will admit I don't fully know how to help one who is dealing with loss."

"You're doing fine," John always found Sherlock a tad more endearing when he acted shy. It was such a change from the abrasive, cocky man he knew.

"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Here we are," He stopped in front of a small cafe that John passed to work every day, but never stopped to eat at. "Shouldn't be too busy," Sherlock said. He let John walked in first, and he followed behind.

The cafe was small, and nearly empty. An elderly couple were eating by the window, and a man with a laptop was sitting at a table by himself eating a sandwich with tea. There was a man standing at the counter getting his take-out order, and a few waitresses refilling sugar.

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock mumbled, peering into the restaurant. John looked around. He saw nobody threatening or crazy. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was angry about.

"Did you just say fuck?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm sorry to offend your naive ears, John."

"You should be," John raised an eyebrow.

"We should go," Sherlock said. "Just... follow me, we'll find another place."

"Why?" John asked.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock let his head hang, and John looked to the source of the voice. It was the man at the counter. He was looking at Sherlock with a strange look on his face, and John heard Sherlock mumble more curse words under his breath.

John felt immediately intimidated by the man approaching him and Sherlock. Tall and thin like Sherlock and dressed in a suit that probably cost more than a month of John's pay. He had short cut black hair, a strong jaw, and large green eyes. A days worth of stubble was on his jaw, and was carrying a bag of take-out in his hand.

"Sherlock," He said fondly.

"Ismael," Sherlock replied with a nod.

"It's been... too long," Ismael had a strong French accent when he spoke. His eyes kept on darting to John, almost questioningly.

"Yes, it has. Time's been good to you," Sherlock said. John felt awkward.

"Yes, yes, to you too. You look... amazing, Sherlock," Ismael said quietly. "No more?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Not for a long time," Sherlock had a faint smile on his lips.

Ismael broke out into a toothy grin. "That's wonderful."

Sherlock nodded. "This is Doctor John Watson," John was always so confused at why Sherlock insisted on telling people his profession. "And John, this is Ismael Pommeraye. Old roommate from university."

"Old?" Ismael almost pouted. "I'm insulted."

"I'm sure you'll survive," Sherlock smirked. Ismael grinned.

"It's nice to meet you, John," Ismael extended a hand to John.

"You as well," John shook Ismael's hand. He had a strangely soft hand, but an extraordinarily strong grip.

"Still in Paris?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmm," Ismael nodded. "How typical."

"Creature of habit," Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John felt like he should not be there while the two men talked. They obviously had a history of sorts. John could feel the tension between the two.

"I'm going to grab a table," John announced while the men stared at one another, having a sort telepathic conversation. "Nice meeting you," He patted Ismael on the shoulder as he walked past. He heard Ismael mumble something in John's direction, but he didn't turn around. He did look over his shoulder, and as he expected the two men were now speaking quickly and quietly to one another.

John sat down at a table close to the window, and took off his coat. He watched Sherlock and Ismael talk, and somehow Ismael had coaxed one of Sherlock's genuine smiles out from behind his wall. John watched in fascination as Ismael placed a hand on Sherlock's waist, and kiss him on both cheeks. Ismael kissed far closer to his mouth than people normally did. John could see Sherlock blush.

It was all too much. Seeing Sherlock smile and blush within in the same two minutes was captivating. John watched with intent as Sherlock leaned close to Ismael, reached inside his shirt, and pulled out a hidden chain. Ismael looked flustered as Sherlock held the golden band that was on the small chain. The blush from his cheeks had faded, and now Ismael looked regretful as Sherlock spoke closely into his ear. Sherlock kept a grip on the chain, and had his other hand on Ismael's shoulder.

"Just for one?" The waitress beside him tore John from the miniature silent play unfolding before him.

"Uhm, no, there's two. It'll be a moment," John smiled up at the twenty-something girl. She nodded with a toothy grin, and set two menus down on the table. "But can I get a coffee and a cup of tea?" John's eyes darted back to the two men across the room. Sherlock had his lips pressed to Ismael's cheek, and Ismael had his eyes shut with a strange look of remorse and ecstasy.

When Ismael finally departed roughly ten seconds later with his takeout in one hand and the other shoving his necklace back into his shirt, John pretended to be interested in the menu before him. Sherlock sat down silently, and quickly removed his coat. "Do they have any specials today?" He asked.

"I didn't ask," John looked up from the pasta section and watched Sherlock as he only smirked with raised eyebrows. He opened up his own menu, let out a bored sigh, and flicked through the pages silently. "Old friend?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his glossy menu. "You could say so," He said. "Club sandwich looks good," He mused.

John looked at his friend unblinkingly. This was too much. He knew nearly nothing about people Sherlock knew besides the people at Scotland Yard, the morgue, random people who owed him favours, and John. This strange man appears out of nowhere, and John sees more emotion out of Sherlock then John has seen in months of living with him. "Bloody hell," John grumbled quietly to himself as he looked at the menu.

The two men sat in silence; John with a frown on his face and Sherlock with a slight smile. The waitress reappeared, and set the two steaming mugs down in front of the men. She took their orders and told them their meal would be there quickly. Sherlock took a sip of the coffee, and sighed. "You're thinking again."

"Who was that man?" John asked.

Sherlock looked confused. "I introduced you."

John swallowed his frustration. "Ismael, sorry. How do you know him?"

"You don't pay proper attention," Sherlock straightened out a wrinkle in his sleeve. John sighed. Getting information out of Sherlock about his personal past was equivalent to digging a hole through a brick wall with a plastic spoon. "I told you we were old friends. We met at university. We were roommates for two years."

"You two seemed awfully friendly after not seeing one another for a long time," John remarked. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. The tone came out ten times more bitter then John expected, and Sherlock looked oddly at John as soon as he said it. "Sorry," John apologized.

"Given our history, it would be normal if we weren't friendly, but we rarely see one another so it doesn't hurt to be civil," Sherlock took another sip of coffee.

"What history? You kicked him out because he stole your brick of cheese from the fridge?" John smirked.

Sherlock faintly smiled in a sad way. "Not quite," He took a tiny pile of sugar into his spoon, and stirred it into his tea. "We had a relationship, Ismael and I. Two years, seven months, three weeks, and two days. He left at his own will," Sherlock tapped his spoon on the lip of his mug.

John stared at Sherlock. "What?" He asked. John had his questions about Sherlock's sexual preference for a long time, but he always got the same answer of how Sherlock considered himself married to his work. Sherlock seemed to have no interest in sex whatsoever, so John began to think of him more asexual than anything. "You never told me you're gay."

"Yes, because I'm not," Sherlock took a satisfied drink of his coffee. "Much better," He said to himself.

"You just said that you had a relationship with Ismael. Unless you didn't mean a romantic one, then I-"

"No, it was romantic," Sherlock said. John could feel his mouth stay open in surprise. Neither spoke until the waitress set down their plates of food in front of them. "Thank you," Sherlock nodded to her. "Please, John, close your mouth," He said as the waitress walked away.

John did. "I'm sorry, but when I first moved in with you I asked if you were straight or gay, and you said neither."

Sherlock picked a tomato out of his sandwich. "Yes, because I am neither."

"I don't understand," John shook his head.

"I don't base my attraction to someone on their gender. I am attracted to the mind, not the sexual anatomy of a person," Sherlock explained, his tone one of boredom. "Before you even ask, I do consider myself married to my work because I am not interested in anybody at this particular point in my life. Can I eat now?"

"So you've been with both men and women?" John asked.

Sherlock took a bite out of his sandwich. John watched him chew with his head hung, eyes shut. "I've have had serious and casual relationships with both genders, yes. I don't prefer one to the other. It depends on the person," Sherlock finally said. "Haven't you?"

"Pardon?"

Sherlock set his sandwich down reluctantly. "I have obviously seen your encounters with women, but you have failed to mention your relationships with men-" He held up a hand when John opened his mouth to speak. "And don't deny it because I have seen you check out men before, and I've seen you speak to old military friends with the same fondness that Ismael and I shared. It's a dreadful stereotype of men finding solace with other men while in the army, but I understand that you have had relationships prior to the army."

John sat in silence. He had been with men before, and he should have known better than to not tell Sherlock. He was bound to find out eventually, and John couldn't deny it. "Never serious with men," It wasn't a lie. He had fooled around as a teenager with some friends, and John did like it. He found himself attracted to men just as much as women.

"I know," Sherlock took another bite of his sandwich. Once he finished chewing, he spoke again. "Just please don't get upset with me when you-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," John waved his hand, cutting Sherlock off even though he knew it made Sherlock annoyed.

"I hate it when you do that," Sherlock grimaced.

"I know," John smirked. He caught Sherlock's eye, and he sat Sherlock smile before he took another bite of his sandwich.

* * *

**A.N.**

You guys have all been so lovely with your feedback of this story, so I decided to lighten the mood up a bit. **  
**


	6. Wine Cellar

Seeing Ismael for the first time in eleven years was quite a shock to Sherlock. Ismael had changed only slightly. He lost his longer hair, about five pounds, adopted a better wardrobe, and a spouse. Sherlock didn't know how to feel about the last point. He and Ismael never spoke of marriage, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he ever wanted to be married. What made Sherlock feel odd was that Ismael wore his wedding ring on a necklace, hidden under his shirt. He didn't want to think ill of Ismael, even after everything that had happened between them, but he had a suspicion it was to pick up men especially after a few things he suggested to Sherlock. It made Sherlock feel a bit sick. He couldn't help but wonder if Ismael did the same thing when they were together.

"Have you been listening to me?" John's voice cut through the jumble of thoughts in his head.

"No," Sherlock replied.

They were walking back to their flat. The streets were becoming increasingly crowded as time passed. John had been rambling about some sort of patient he had today, but Sherlock had blocked him out for about five minutes. He knew John wanted to speak more about Sherlock's past relationships, but he wasn't in the mood. Sherlock was feeling, and he didn't like it.

John had stopped speaking, and Sherlock was a bit glad. He wanted this feeling of doubt and hurt inside him to go away, but it wouldn't. He kept on replaying his relationship with Ismael over and over in his head, wondering if he hadn't been enough for Ismael. The relationship was such a haze to Sherlock. He began to grow frustrated with himself. Past bad habits were preventing him from remembering information he wanted to know.

"You alright?" John asked.

"Fine," Sherlock said.

When John didn't follow up with any more questions, Sherlock felt a little... let down, almost. As John opened the door to their flat, Sherlock shut his eyes. He was feeling all these different emotions about different things, and he hated it. He wanted it all to go away. Sherlock wasn't sure how to cope with everything he was feeling. Ten minutes ago he was feeling fine, but now he felt like he had been hit with an emotional sledgehammer.

Seeing his brother perched on the couch made his mood decrease even more. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, taking off his jacket in one swift motion. John quietly shut the door behind Sherlock.

"I can't take an interest in my brother's life?" Mycroft asked with the usual smug look on his face.

"You take far too much of an interest," Sherlock grumbled. He walked past his brother to the closet by the bookcase that was used for storing mainly boxes and cleaning supplies Mrs. Hudson left around as a not-so subtle hint. He had boxes of old photos shoved in here somewhere. He began to throw empty boxes and boxes filled with useless things out of the closet.

"Always a pleasure, John," Sherlock heard Mycroft say. The small talk his brother and his friend were making became white noise while he sifted through boxes. After twenty three disappointing boxes, he found the one with old photos from ten years ago. Sherlock set the box aside, and moved back from the closet.

He heard his brother sigh. "You know you don't want to-"

"What do you know?" Sherlock stood up. He observed his brother's calm face. He ignored John standing off to the side, both confused and worried. Sherlock walked closer to his brother. "What do you know about Ismael?" Sherlock asked darkly.

"Sherlock, I-"

"If you are so interested, please inform me about aspects of my life that you know better than I do," Sherlock said. Mycroft shut his mouth, and sighed. He had a sort of pitiful look in his eyes as he looked at Sherlock.

"You never say I've never done anything for you," Mycroft sighed. "It would be best for you to find out yourself, but-"

"Mycroft-"

"Stop cutting me off, Sherlock. Clearly Mummy never taught you manners as well as she thought," Mycroft snapped. "If you want to know, yes, Ismael cheated on you in your relationship. The end of it, when you were more concerned with bad habits than him," Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock frowned. He felt sick. He had been with other partners who weren't faithful to him, but he always knew. He also wasn't on drugs with them. Ismael. How could Ismael do that to him? Sherlock walked past his brother and sat down on the chair. He stared at the wall blankly. He mind began to race with possible people it could have been with.

He felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock flinched. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"He's cheating on his spouse, too?" Sherlock asked.

"That is what I've been told," Mycroft said.

Sherlock sighed. "That's why you're here, right? To tell me before I found it out myself?"

Mycroft knelt down, and spoke close to Sherlock's ear so John couldn't hear. "I know how important he was to you, and I know you're hurt. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you, but I couldn't risk you doing something stupid."

"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft was quiet. "Seven years. I had Anthea look into him one day out of curiosity and, well," He clapped his hands. Sherlock frowned, and he felt Mycroft pat his shoulder once before he stood up. As much Sherlock immensely disliked his brother, he did love Mycroft. He would never admit it, but moments where Mycroft showed his black heart was still working made Sherlock appreciate him. "I'll see you," He said. "Goodnight, John," He said to John before leaving.

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door click shut before he moved. He stood got up off of the chair, and walked to the kitchen. He was aware of John following him. "Are you alright?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock stood on a kitchen chair, and stepped up onto the table. His left foot was on a pile of old experiment documents, and his right was on John's briefcase. He moved one of the ceiling tiles, and pulled out the first wine bottle he had hidden months ago. "Mrs. Hudson is vey anti-alcohol. Mycroft sends the best for Christmas and birthdays, so I hide them for occasions," Sherlock explained briefly. He stepped off the table, and went to work finding a cork screw.

"Sherlock, I don't think drinking is the best way to cope with this," John said. Sherlock ignored him, and quickly pulled the cork from the bottle. He tossed the corkscrew away, and took a long drink of cool wine. It was a Sherry from the 1900',s, which would work well for drowning Sherlock's sorrows. "Sherlock-"

"You should be glad I'm not sticking a fucking needle in my arm, John," Sherlock bristled as he pushed past John. He picked up the box of photos, and walked to his room with his hands full. He kicked the door shut, and threw the box of photos on the bed before he locked the door. Sherlock drank more wine, and sat down on the bed. He stared at the box beside him. Sherlock set the wine aside, and opened up the box. The first was one of Ismael on their old couch at their old apartment. Sherlock's brain began to race of all the possible things Ismael could have been lying about through their entire relationship, and he wanted his brain to stop. Sherlock set the box on the floor, picked up the wine, and curled up into a ball.

* * *

A constant drumming noise inside Sherlock's head made him regret waking up. The taste of mint lingered in his mouth suspiciously. He groaned to himself, and rolled over in his bed away from the thin strip of sunlight shining through his blinds. Sherlock felt sore, stiff, sick, and hung-over to the nines. His bedding smelt like alcohol, which nearly made him get sick on his sheets.

Sherlock carefully and slowly got out of his bed. His room appeared to be in order. He looked down at himself, and frowned. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. It explained why he felt so uncomfortable. Sherlock slowly stripped out of his clothes and pulled on clean pyjama pants and a dressing robe. Why hadn't he changed? Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed in thought. His throbbing head was making it hard for him to think straight. He couldn't remember going to bed last night. The last thing he remembered was locking his bedroom door.

He walked to his door, and checked the doorknob. His door wasn't locked. Sherlock shuffled out of his bedroom feeling ill as could be. He pulled his dressing gown closer to his body, and slowly made his way to the couch. He did smile weakly at John's attempts to make the house more hangover friendly. The lights were all off, the shades were drawn, the TV was off, and only the natural light that managed to seep into the room lit it. Sherlock could hear the rain falling outside, and was glad for the gray skies that came with rain.

He sat down on the couch, and observed the room. It was silent. Was John even there? Sherlock could only hear the pounding in his head. He groaned, and rubbed his throbbing head. His entire body ached. He had been hung-over before, but this was different. His entire body throbbed. He couldn't remember why his body was in so much pain.

The door creaked open slowly, and John appeared. "Oh, shit," He said, more to himself than to Sherlock. "I meant be back before you woke up."

"How bad is it raining?" Sherlock asked. John's hair was sticking up in parts where he had shaken the rain from it.

"Not terribly bad," He slid off his shoes, and walked to the kitchen with his bag of milk. Sherlock held his head in his hands, trying to calm the nauseous feeling that was bubbling up inside of him. He felt John's weight sink into the sofa. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting with his head gripped in his hands.

"Why does my mouth taste like toothpaste?" Sherlock asked.

"After you spent an hour throwing up all that wine, I brushed your teeth for you."

"For me?" Sherlock asked, not raising his head from his hands. It felt too heavy.

"You were starting to pass out," Sherlock let out a groan, and rubbed his head. "How bad is it?" John asked sympathetically.

"I feel like death," Sherlock grumbled. "How come you didn't stop me?" Sherlock looked at John. He looked tired. He hadn't shaved that morning, and he had bags under his eyes. He was wearing jeans from yesterday, but a clean blue jumper.

"Oh, I tried," John scratched his stubble. "You shoved me away from you, yelled some incoherent stuff, and locked yourself in your room."

Sherlock frowned. He couldn't remember leaving his room after the second bottle of wine he went to fetch. "I did?"

"For such a wisp of a man, you're quite forceful," John mused.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile lightly, but dropped the smile almost immediately. "I hurt you, didn't I?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Not bad," He admitted.

"Let me see," Sherlock sat up, and immediately regretted it. He shut his eyes to stop the room from spinning, and tried to not throw up on his flatmate. He felt John's jumper clad arms wrap around him to keep him steady. Sherlock couldn't help but curl into John's chest. John's thumping heart was helping his head calm down, and focus on what was happening.

"Just relax," John chuckled. "I'm fine. You're not."

"What did I do?" Sherlock insisted.

John ignored him, and manoeuvred both Sherlock and himself into a more comfortable position. Sherlock let himself be moved around like a rag doll. His body hurt too much to move it himself. After John fit them both comfortably on the couch - John sitting at one end with Sherlock's head on the arm of the couch, but the rest of him lying along the couch and subsequently John - he let out a sigh. "You shoved me. It caught me off guard how strong you pushed, and I fell badly. Hit my arm on the table. I'm fine."

"Let me see," Sherlock said. John didn't move either arm. Sherlock picked up the arm that was casually holding onto Sherlock's stomach, and rolled up the sleeve. About a two inch cut was stitched together on his forearm. Sherlock ran a finger along the cut, hoping to remember what he did, but his mind was a haze. "I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized.

"It's alright," John said. "Just don't make a habit of it," He half-joked.

"Never," Sherlock said. He felt sicker now than before.

"Sherlock," John's fingers were gently playing with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock never stopped him; it oddly made him feel better. "Call me bothersome, but can you not get this drunk again?"

Sherlock smirked. "I can hardly hear my own thoughts. I don't think I'll be doing this for a while."

"Or," John started, and Sherlock felt sick once more. "-with a needle in your arm, like you so eloquently offered to do instead of drinking."

Sherlock felt embarrassed as the memory rushed back to him. He had never outwardly told John he had done drugs in the past. He knew John knew; nearly everyone around them had made passing references to it for months, but yesterday was the first time he admitted anything to John. "Never again," Sherlock sighed, disgusted with himself.

John looked relieved. "Good. I just, uh. I don't want someone else. Well. You know," He frowned.

Sherlock looked up at John with curiosity. John was staring blankly at the floor while his hand still tugged at random pieces of Sherlock's hair .He was lost in his own train of thought. It took Sherlock a moment before it finally clicked in his head. "Harry." John didn't say anything, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth said it all. "I'm sorry, John. You're dealing with your mother's death and family, and I act like a fool. I'm sorry," Sherlock shut his eyes. His head was thumping again.

"Sherlock," John's voice was comforting to him. "You were upset. It's alright."

"You're a much stronger man than I thought, John," Sherlock said. John was silent, but Sherlock received a stronger tug on a lock of hair. Sherlock smiled at John's minor show of affection, and let John play with his hair until Sherlock fell asleep on his lap.

* * *

**A.N.**

Look at that cutesy time. Look at it. **  
**


	7. Stripped

"I don't know why we don't talk anymore," Harry slurred as John dug around in his pocket for his keys. He felt disgusted with himself for the regret he had for answering his phone. It was his first day back in surgery, and everybody was acting odd around him. It was as if he was the new kid in class again, and John hated it. He had a long day doing rounds and only helping minor injuries. Nobody wanted to put him back into the big surgeries. After he picked up some milk from the grocery, he got a call from Harry. It was the first he had heard from her since the third week after the funeral. It was not the first drunk call he had ever received from Harry, nor the first time he had ever picked her up drunk.

"We talk enough, Harry," John said. He was feeling buzzed by just smelling Harry's breath. He banged on the door. "Sherlock," He cried. He couldn't figure out where his keys were, and Harry was draping over the left side of his body.

"Sh'lock?" Harry giggled. "The pretty boy from Mom's funeral?"

"Yes," John felt annoyance twinge at him. "Who evidently isn't here right now."

Harry let out a humming noise. "You just called him pretty." John pushed Harry away slightly, and dug into his left pocket. The keys were there, and he quickly unlocked the door. He grabbed the bag of milk from off the floor and pulled Harry into his side tightly. He guided her into the apartment, and kicked the door shut after him. "It's messy in here, John. You're not messy," Harry laughed.

"Yep," John sighed. His back hurt from supporting Harry, and his feet hurt from work all day. He was a bit thankful Sherlock wasn't home. He didn't want to deal with running across London for a jewel thief or having to smell some human experiment.

John set the milk down beside the door, and began to steer Harry towards the stairs. "Sh'lock's mess?"

"Yep," John said again. One step at a time, he carefully dragged her up the stairs to her room. He didn't care if Sherlock would be mad at him, but he was going to claim the couch that night. The couch had been silently claimed as Sherlock's just as the red armchair was silently his.

"Do you think that he-" Harry hiccupped. "Knows?"

"He knows a lot of things. Narrow it down, Harry," John said.

"That you think he's pretty," Harry rolled her head onto his shoulder. He sighed, and stopped on the stair. "You're mad," Harry giggled again.

"I'm tired, not mad," John sighed, and began to move again. Another five minutes passed before they finally reached the top of the stairs, and another ten before they reached John's room.

"It smells like you in here," Harry mumbled. She was beginning to go, and was becoming dead weight on John's shoulder.

"It is my room," John sighed. He carefully laid his sister down onto his bed, and went to his dresser to pull out a spare blanket. He draped it over her body gently. "Harry," He sighed, and pushed her hair away from her face.

"'M sorry I dis...appoint you," Harry rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"You don't, you don't," John shushed her. "You know I love you. I'm just worried about you," He wiped some smudged makeup off her face with his thumb.

"...love you, too, brother," Harry sounded drowsy. John stayed beside her until her breathing evened out and she was passed out. John sighed, and went to his desk. He put the bin from beside his desk to beside the bed, just in case. He pulled off his jumper, and tossed in into the laundry bin. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, and watched his sister sleep. It was his second drunk person to watch over in the past month. Since Sherlock's little bender two weeks ago, John had been a bit on edge.

He quietly slid out of his room, and wandered back downstairs. He wanted a cup of tea before he drifted off. Lord knows he needed sleep more than tea, but tea before bed usually made him sleep better. He already knew that he would be up half the night worrying about Harry, but lying to himself about possibly getting sleep felt a bit reassuring.

John put the kettle on, and rubbed his eyes sleepily. He leaned on the counter, not thinking anything besides how much he wanted a cup of tea. His mind was beginning to turn off for the night. He looked over at the couch and felt desire to be asleep on it.

A noise in the night made John feel startled. John wandered over to the edge of the kitchen. The light from the kitchen was the only light in the flat. It dimly lit the living room, and John could see that nothing out of the ordinary was in the living room. It calmed John to a degree, but the noise came again from Sherlock's room. Perhaps Sherlock was home after all. John turned back to the kettle, and realized he should probably warn Sherlock that Harry was in the flat, and that John would be on the sofa for the night.

John shuffled over to Sherlock's door. He knocked once, and opened the door rubbing his tired eyes. "Sherlock, I-"

John didn't finished his sentence. The sight before him was... indescribable. Sherlock was naked on all fours with Ismael behind him. No lights were on in the room, but streetlights from outside were giving the room a tiny glow. Sherlock was incredibly pale and his body was full of sharp points. His hair was more messed than usual, and his eyes were scrunched shut. For a split second, John wondered if it was consensual. Ismael had his hand covering Sherlock's mouth, but when Ismael pulled Sherlock up so they were back to chest, Sherlock never pulled away like John oddly wished he would have. Ismael muttered something in French, and Sherlock let out a very loud moan and John saw how hard Sherlock was.

"Dr. Watson," Ismael panted. John wondered why he was still standing in Sherlock's doorway. His eyes met Ismael's, which were clouded over with lust. Sherlock was watching John through half shut eyes. "You can join if you won't shut the door." Sherlock let out another moan as John met his eyes. He had never seen Sherlock look so defenceless. He didn't know if it was out of embarrassment or pleasure, but Sherlock moved his hands to cover his cock. Ismael only chuckled at the whole situation.

"I, uh, s-sorry," John stammered.

John hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He went back upstairs to his room, and shut the door behind him. He sat down on the floor, his back to the door, and rubbed his face with his hands. He couldn't believe that he had actually seen Sherlock naked, Sherlock's impressive cock, and Sherlock having sex. He tried to push the image of his naked roommate out of his mind. He felt a bit ill when he heard a noise from downstairs, now that he knew what it was.

He knew deep down inside he shouldn't care about who Sherlock had sex with, but he had already dealt with an emotionally hurt Sherlock because of Ismael. He didn't want Sherlock to do it again, especially with Harry on the bed as a reminder of what Sherlock when he was drunk. Sherlock really seemed to be enjoying it, but John couldn't shake the sick feeling from his stomach.

John remained seated on the floor, watching his sister sleep while he wondered if he got sick in the bin if Harry would know if he had done it or she did it passed out. John heard Sherlock walking up the stairs. He looked at the clock, and realized he had been sitting on the floor for almost forty-five minutes. A timid knock on the door made John's nauseous feeling increase.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was quiet and muffled from the door. When John didn't answer, Sherlock tried to open the door. John's weight against it barely moved the door past the frame. "John?" Sherlock spoke again.

John remained silent. The only noise in the room was Harry's soft and steady breathing. John heard Sherlock sigh, and the sound of Sherlock sliding down against the door. "If you want to be difficult, I can wait," Sherlock said.

John didn't speak again, and Sherlock sighed once more. "It was a closure shag, if it makes you feel better. He and I both needed it."

"Sure you did," John mumbled under is breath.

"This would be so much nicer if you didn't mumble, and if we could speak face to face," Sherlock said. John was silent, trying to simultaneously will his sick stomach away and figure out why he felt so sick. It could have been because of anything during his day, especially since he was running on such little sleep with little food. "John," Sherlock said in an oddly playful voice. "I'm sorry you had to see me in such an undignified light. I didn't expect you to... open the door," Sherlock said.

John watched Harry sleep instead of replying to Sherlock. She looked so calm and peaceful when she was asleep - just like Sherlock did when he fell asleep on John's lap. John felt a twisting feeling in his stomach, and he placed his head in his hands. Why couldn't the world just stop for a moment until he felt normal again?

"I'm not good at this kind of this, John," Sherlock sounded frustrated. John kept silent. He didn't want to see Sherlock or speak to him. He wanted Sherlock to go away so he could fall asleep. He heard Sherlock sigh, and his weight lifted off of the door. John waited until he heard Sherlock slowly pad his way down the stairs, almost regretfully. John walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a spare blanket. He wrapped himself up in it, and grabbed a third as a pillow. He laid back down in front of the door, and tried to urge himself to sleep.

* * *

**A.N.**

The plot! She finally progresses! JOYOUS DAY.  
I have the next part already half-written, so it should be up by Saturday night.

Also! Thank you to all of you who are taking your time to give me your feedback. I appreciate every single review I get. It warms the cockles of my little heart to hear from you guys.


	8. Sleeping Sickness

Feeling regret was not something Sherlock was used to. He was never used to feeling bad about what he had done and how his actions affected people. John walking in on his last tryst with Ismael made Sherlock feel confused about a number of things. For one, he needed to know that John accepted his apology. Another thing, he didn't know for what exactly he was apologizing for. He wanted to apologize for sleeping with Ismael, for having John see him so exposed, for having Ismael invite him into their tryst, for not locking the door, for-

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his forehead in his hands. He wasn't used to feeling so bad about his actions and feeling so confused about too many things. Ismael had whispered to Sherlock that he should invite John to join them, and for some reason it made Sherlock incredibly more aroused. He wanted to know why. It could of been Ismael speaking in French, an old trick that made Sherlock weak at the knees years ago. It could of been the environment. It could of just been... Sherlock had no idea.

Sherlock's ears twitched when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He had waited for John to answer him from the other side of his door, but he head nothing besides John shifting back and forth subtly. Sherlock was hoping this was John finally coming down from his room to speak to him.

"You are not John," Sherlock said as Harry reached the living room.

Harry rubbed her eyes, smudging her makeup even more than it already was. "Sorry to disappoint. I thought John told you."

It clicked to Sherlock why John had knocked on his door. He was going to tell Sherlock that Harry was staying the night. Due to her night clothes she evidently slept in, and the lingering smell of vodka, it was because she called him when she was too far gone to go home to whatever was waiting for her there. "No, he didn't. I was... busy," Sherlock said.

Harry raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. He felt so unsure about himself at the moment. He wasn't sure how he was presenting himself to Harry. He didn't know what signs she was getting from his stance. He was shaken to the core. He watched as Harry went to go make tea, almost instinctively. It made Sherlock smile at the similarities between she and her brother.

"So, do you know why my brother is sleeping on his floor right now?" Harry asked.

"Because you were in his bed instead of him," Sherlock shifted in his chair uncomfortably, wincing at the slight pain in his arse. It had been a while.

"Yeah, but I mean why wasn't he sleeping on the couch like he said he planned on?" Harry turned towards Sherlock, leaning on the counter.

"I don't know," Sherlock lied.

"He was asleep in front of the door when I first woke up, but I shifted him out of the way," Harry yawned. "So no idea why? I thought you were the pretty genius in the house," She laughed and Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Sorry. John agreed," Harry shrugged.

"Oh," Sherlock said. He had no idea on how to interpret that.

Harry clucked her tongue. "I have no real reason to intrude on John's life, given how our sibling relationship it, but I have a question to ask you," She didn't wait for Sherlock's response, "Is there anything going on between you and my brother?"

Sherlock blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Like, are you two fucking?" Harry asked bluntly, finishing preparing the two mugs of tea she had in front of her.

Sherlock felt his face burn. "No, no we aren't. We're friends. Colleagues. Roommates. No romantic relationship," Sherlock said. "What piqued your-"

"Instinct," Harry interrupted.

"Oh?"

"John talks so highly of you, and I've heard some pretty awful things about you from other people," Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. "But John tells me so many good things about you, and John has such a high standard that he measures people to, and you seem to meet it. That's a feat."

The distressed look on her face, Sherlock knew that Harry did not meet John's standard and she knew it. "Oh," Sherlock cleared his throat. Harry took a sip of her tea, and her face brightened as she looked past Sherlock. Sherlock didn't need to turn around to know that John was now in the kitchen.

"Morning," Harry handed him the second cup of tea she prepared.

"How'd you sleep?" His back was towards Sherlock. Sherlock eyed his work clothes. He never worked on Saturdays.

"Good. Thanks for everything," She smiled meekly.

"No worries. I hate to run, but they called me into work. Someone couldn't make their shift. Everyone has personal shit happening on Saturdays," He sighed. He finished his tea in two large gulps, and set the mug down on the counter. He gave Harry a quick peck on the cheek before he turned around to grab his bag off the table. Sherlock met John's eyes for a split second.

In that time, he could see that John hadn't slept much that night. He looked tired, annoyed, and some emotion Sherlock couldn't interpret. John blinked, and cleared his throat. "See you later," He said to neither Harry nor Sherlock. Sherlock had never seen John move so quickly out of the flat before.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and sighed. Their brief encounter only made him want to reassure things with John, and his need to reassure things with John only confused him more. There was a loud buzz that rang through the apartment.

"What was that?" Harry asked.

"The dryer. I was doing some washing," Sherlock stood up.

"So early?"

"I didn't sleep much last night," Sherlock admitted. After he made Ismael leave and tried to talk to John, Sherlock didn't bother sleeping. He tried, but the smell on his sheets was overpoweringly Ismael, and the smell was making him sick.

John shuffled in from work nearly thirteen hours after his shift started. Sherlock looked up from his laptop, and knew something was wrong. John was moving slowly in a robotic fashion. He seemed lost in a daze, and his face was streaked with dried tears.

"What happened?" Sherlock shut his laptop.

John seemed startled that Sherlock was there, let alone talking to him. "I, uh, lost a patient today," He said weakly. "Older lady, early sixties..." He trailed off, "Car accident," He added softly at the end. Sherlock watched as John sat down in his chair, and groaned into his hands. He rubbed his cheek, and stared at the floor.

"You thought if you could have saved her, you could have also saved your mom," Sherlock said flatly. "But you couldn't, and it made you realize that you couldn't have saved your Mom, and-"

"Sherlock-"

"You were crying, so you were at the graveyard visiting your mother's tombstone because you were upset," Sherlock finished.

John sighed, and leaned into his chair. "Basically, yeah," John sighed. "Just... weird hearing it all out loud."

Sherlock could see that John was visibly upset. He wasn't sure what to do. "Can I help in any way?" He asked awkwardly.

John looked at him oddly with one eyebrow raised. "Did you just offer to help me?"

"That was my intention, yes."

"Just asking helps a bit," John dimly smiled. "Not much you can help with," He sighed.

"Oh," Sherlock leaned back into the couch. The living room was silent. Sherlock was staring at John, and John was staring at the floor. He kept on rubbing his jaw and cheek in an almost nervous fashion. There must be something Sherlock could do to help John. He just didn't know what. "Harry took a cab home around four," He said.

John barely nodded. "Good."

The barely returned to silence before Sherlock spoke again. "Last night, John, I-"

"I don't want to talk about it," John said sharply.

"How awful because I do," Sherlock set his laptop aside. "I'm sorry about everything that happened. Ismael called, wanting to talk-" John chuckled, but didn't stop Sherlock, "and while we were talking old memories were brought up, and then we-"

"Fucked," John finished bluntly.

"So eloquently spoken," Sherlock huffed.

John was smirking, and he rubbed his chin again. "I don't understand, Sherlock."

"What is it this time?"

"You call people idiots all the time, yet you failed to see why Ismael called. He didn't want to talk to you; he wanted to have sex with you. He's not a good person."

"You don't know him," Sherlock said.

"You judge people all the time without knowing them," John's eyes finally met Sherlock's. "He used you because he knew that you still had a bit of feelings for him. I could even see it that day that you found out he cheated on you. Nobody gets that drunk and that upset about a boyfriend ten years ago unless they still had some feelings left for them."

Sherlock was about to speak when John stood up and started to walk towards him. "That's the other thing. You were so fucking-" It was one of the rare times that Sherlock heard John say 'fuck' angrily, "upset and hurt that night because of him cheating on you. You slept with him even though he is engaged. You are blinded by feelings you have for him, and you don't see what a piece of shit he obviously is."

"Had," Sherlock said.

"What?" John stood before him, almost looking confused at the fact that he walked halfway across the room.

"Had feelings. I don't have any for him anymore," Sherlock said.

"Right," John rolled his eyes. "You can turn your emotions on and off like a switch unlike us lowly normal people."

"No, I can't do that," Sherlock said bitterly. He was trying to remain calm with John because he knew John was upset over a number of things, but he didn't like being attacked by John. "Last night made me realize how much I don't miss him, and how much he makes me sick when I'm with him. I don't feel good when I'm with him," Sherlock explained.

John's lips tugged at a smile. "Right. You sure looked uncomfortable with him," John mumbled under his breath, as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"I'm sorry you walked in us while we were having sex, and I'm sorry you had to see me like that, and I'm sorry he was an idiot when he spoke to you, which he had to right to do. After that, John, is when I wasn't comfortable with him," Sherlock found himself to be standing as well, staring down at John. "I know you're upset today because of circumstances in your life, but I would appreciate it if you didn't take it out on me because I'm convenient."

John stared up at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back down at John. They held each other's gaze for nearly a minute before John broke first, and sighed. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, and sighed again. He looked back up at Sherlock, and poked his chest. "If you ever sleep with him again, I'll kill both of you," He warned.

Sherlock felt himself smile. "Of course," He nodded.

"You're too good for someone like him," John said. Sherlock felt his smile wane a bit. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him before. It was possibly the nicest thing anybody had ever said to him. Before Sherlock could react, John was walking away to the kitchen. "Chinese tonight?"

Sherlock rubbed his chest where John had poked him. The area was warm, and Sherlock felt a newfound appreciation for John. He walked to the kitchen, and saw John standing at the table flipping through a phonebook. He walked behind him, and wrapped his arms around his chest in a strange hug. "Thank you," He said.

He felt John pat his arms, "You're welcome." Sherlock expected John to struggle out of his grasp, but he remained still, running his hands over Sherlock's arms slowly. Sherlock rested his forehead on the back of John's head. He could feel John's body heat on his chest.

"Are you alright after today? With the hospital?" Sherlock asked with genuine concern.

John was quiet. "I will be. It was a lot to take in," He admitted. "My mom never wanted me to become an army doctor," He said suddenly. There was a sound of fondness in his voice. "Lots of the family men were army doctors, and a couple died because of it. She wanted me to become a neurosurgeon, make lots of money, and take care of her. I took a year of it, and realized I hated it. I wanted to be an army doctor. She wasn't happy with it, but she let me. After I came home after my first year in Afghanistan, she gave me the biggest hug and told me how proud she was of me. She was always proud of me and Harry, no matter what we did, as long as it made us happy."

"She sounds like she was a wonderful person," Sherlock said honestly.

"She was," John said distantly. "She was wonderful," He paused. "She would have adored you."

"Was she sane?" Sherlock smirked. "Not many people can tolerate me, let alone 'adore'."

John laughed. "She was sane. She loved interesting people. You would have made her day."

"I wish I could have met her," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," John said solemnly. "I do, too," John paused for a moment. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied.

"I thought at my mother's funeral that you said you didn't like hugging people," John said warily.

Sherlock felt the corners of his lips turn up into a smirk. "I really don't," He felt John's shoulders stiffen under his arms. "John, calm down. I know it's considered normal to embrace people when you're apologetic towards them or when they're experiencing grief, which both apply at this moment. I consider you a friend John, and this is customary for friends to do."

John seemed satisfied with that answer, and stayed silent. He slowly put his weight back onto Sherlock, leaning back into him. Sherlock had never felt more content in his life. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he let out a small sigh. He pulled his arms away from John, and pulled the black buzzing device out of his pocket.

_Need your help._

_Lestrade_

Sherlock only smirked, and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He walked to the hook on wall beside the door to grab his coat. He turned around, expecting John to be following him. John wasn't, and Sherlock slid on his coat as he walked back to the kitchen. "Lestrade needs help. Do you want to come?"

John was standing by the counter preparing himself a cup of tea. "No, not today. I don't think I'm up for it."

Sherlock nodded, deciding not to press the issue even though he wanted John to come with him. "I understand."

"Want me to order you some food?" John asked.

"Sure, sure," Sherlock's mind was already on the case. As he left the flat, the mental image of John, sad, hurt, and just worn out nagged at Sherlock's mind.


	9. The House Doctor

Bleary eyed, John stared at the TV in front of him. The DVD menu for the James Bond movie he slipped in a few hours ago was playing on a loop. He yawned, and sat up straighter on the couch. He had dozed off halfway through. He picked up the phone on his floor and checked the time. It was nearly half past three in the morning. John yawned again, and ran a hand through his hair. Disgusted when he felt his hand afterwards, John decided to was time to have a shower.

John slowly and sleepily made his way upstairs to the bathroom. The flat was too silent; Sherlock still wasn't home. He was probably chasing a lead that the police never saw, or being held captive by someone. John momentarily wondered if he should call Sherlock to see if he was alright, but he quickly decided against it. Sherlock would want him to come out and help him when John really didn't feel up to it, or yell at him for interrupting his deducing and John would pay for it in silence for a week.

Sherlock. John's mind slipped to his roommate as he shut the bathroom door behind him. Sherlock had hugged him earlier on, and John felt something. He had felt Sherlock's need for him to be alright, and it made John feel special in some odd way he didn't quite understand. He saw Sherlock blatantly not care about other people and make it very vocal to them that he didn't care, but John was different. Sherlock cared about John, and although John knew that after the whole 'Moriarty' bit a few months ago, it was different this time. When Moriarty strapped a bomb to him, he saw utter fear in Sherlock's eyes. How furiously he tore the bomb from John showed him that Sherlock gave a shit. This was not the same; this was Sherlock caring about John because of something that he did that made John upset.

As John turned on the shower, he remembered the feeling of Sherlock's arms around him. Sherlock had a tight grip for such a lanky man. As he stepped under the warm stream of water, he thought of the warmth of Sherlock's chest against his back. He could almost feel the pounding beat of Sherlock's heart against his back.

John shook his head, and shook the thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. He decided that after his shower, he would go make a quick cup of tea, clean up his dinner mess from that evening, and head to bed. He had the next day - well, more like the rest of the day - off, and he wanted to sleep for a good thirteen or so hours. Sleep would probably do him some good. The thoughts of that woman on his table had messed up his mind. All he thought while operating on her was that she could of been his mother. Someone had operated his mother who had the same injuries as the woman in front of John did, and the thought made him feel sick. On top of that, dealing with the whole Sherlock and Ismael thing had thrown him for a loop.

His mind wandered back to that night as he lathered shampoo into his hair. He had never seen Sherlock so... well, naked obviously. Sherlock had a much more angular body than John thought he would. He knew Sherlock was a skinny man, but John could see the outline of his ribs through his skin, how his pale skin had stretched over the sharp curves of his hipbones, how his collarbone protruded so severely...

John stopped thinking, and stared at the shower wall. He looked down, and saw that he was half hard. John swallowed. He hadn't been hard when he got into the shower, and all he had thought about while in the shower was tea, surgery, and Sherlock. John's eyes widened. John finished rinsing the shampoo from his hair, and then slicked conditioner through it. As he did, he fought between his two options: he could jack off, or he could ignore it and deal with it in the morning. John figured that Sherlock would be home by the time he woke up, which would mean that he would probably face an awkward conversation with Sherlock if he waited until morning. Besides, he never often had the flat to himself, and the shower made clean up that much easier.

John hesitantly reached down, and he grabbed a hold of his cock. He slowly ran his hand up and down, tilting his head back at the sensation. He let his mind drift to a montage of various sexual partners he had through the years. The weekend with Amanda in Edinburgh, the one night in Amsterdam with Lila, the last night that John had in Afghanistan with Wade, the moment he locked eyes with Sherlock when he walked in on him with Ismael.

John was surprised with himself as he let out a sudden moan at the last memory. Sherlock's eyes were so bright and so hazy with lust at the same time. John remembered how Sherlock's body was pulsing as Ismael thrust into him, and how Sherlock kept his eyes on John for the few brief seconds John was present. He recalled the moan, oh fuck, the moan that Sherlock let out when Ismael had offered John to join them. It was all throat, deep and rough, and in the shower the memory of it went straight to John's cock. John tightened his hand, and moved faster. He held an arm against the shower wall to brace himself.

Trying to shake Sherlock from his memory, he went back to his previous montage. Amanda's breasts, Lila's hips, Wade's mouth, Evan's skilled hands, Nicki's attention to detail as she went down on John, Veronica's unquenchable need for sex, what if John was behind Sherlock making him moan. John let out another moan. He stopped thinking of the past lovers; he thought of Sherlock. What he would feel like, what he would be like in bed, those eyes. Fuck, those eyes.

John came fast and hard like a teenager. He panted as he remained still in the shower, letting the water beat down on his back steadily and wash away his come slowly. He grabbed a cloth, and wiped the remainder off himself. He rinsed the cloth out, and squeezed some shower gel onto a clean cloth. Halfway through cleaning his body, John realized he just masturbated to thoughts Sherlock Holmes.

Ending his shower quickly, John stepped out and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was confused as he walked back to his room. He always found Sherlock attractive - everyone did - and John wasn't exactly as straight as he knew he appeared to be, but he never really thought of Sherlock and him being together. Sure, people implied it all the time, ever since their first meeting, but John never saw Sherlock like that. He always thought of Sherlock to be an uninterested asexual pretty boy, but now John knew that not to be true.

Tugging on a pair of underwear, John sighed to himself. It didn't mean anything, wanking off to thoughts of Sherlock. Surely it didn't. It was just the last sexual thing that John had seen. John was failing at trying to justify why he had done it, but he wasn't sure he regretted it. It was good.

John slid on a pair of pyjama pants, and ran the towel through his hair a few times. He hoped tea and a good night sleep would clear his mind. He scratched his bare chest as he walked back downstairs, feeing a lot more relaxed than he did a few moments ago. John picked up his empty take-out containers before he walked to the kitchen. He tossed the cartons into the bin as he put the kettle on. The flat always seemed so empty without Sherlock.

A thud at the door distracted John from the kettle he was watching boil. John paused, and looked at the direction of the living room. A weaker thud followed it. John hesitantly walked to the door, wondering who in their right mind would be at the door so early in the morning. John opened the door slowly, and was nearly knocked off balance by Sherlock who literally fell onto Sherlock. John gasped, and grabbed hold of his friend while trying not to fall.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John tried to make Sherlock stand, but he wouldn't'. John looked at his face, and felt his stomach twist. His eyes were fluttering, and blood was seeping from his head. "What happened?"

"Too... close," Sherlock coughed. He seemed to gasp for air before he continued. "Too soon."

"I haven't got the slightest idea what you're talking about," John sighed. Although he knew Sherlock detested it, John swiftly picked Sherlock up. He had only done it once before when Sherlock fell asleep on his lap. John carried Sherlock to his bed, and he had heard about it for the next two days straight.

Sherlock was babbling incoherently as John carried him up to the bathroom. He could feel blood on his bare chest, and he wondered how hurt Sherlock was and if an ambulance was needed. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, and John could feel his warm breath on his collar bone. "Found out... killer. Gang... thought I... couldn't do it... too many..." Sherlock weakly coughed again.

"Just shush," John ordered. He was nearing the bathroom, and he didn't want Sherlock to strain anything by explaining things to John. Sherlock obeyed, and stayed quiet as they finished their trek to the bathroom. John nudged the door open with his foot, and was thankful that he kept the light on. He knelt down on the tile floor, and peeled off Sherlock's coat before he laid Sherlock out on the floor completely. He leaned close to Sherlock's face, observing the wound at the top of his head. It wasn't fatal or that serious, which made John ten times more relieved. "I need you to tell me where it hurts and how bad, alright?"

Sherlock didn't reply, so John began to press on Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock winced. "There."

John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt quickly, and opened it so he could see the damage. Sherlock's skin was broken on the right side of his ribs, and there was substantial bruising already. There was far less on the left. Nothing he could seriously do if the ribs were cracked or broken. He pressed harder, ignoring Sherlock's wincing face, and tried to feel if any were ambulance necessary broken.

"Scar," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John lifted his hands off Sherlock's chest. He stood up and got a towel damp before returning to Sherlock's side. "What scar?" He began to wipe the blood away from Sherlock's ribs.

He felt Sherlock poke the rippled tissue on his shoulder, and he shivered. "I've never seen it before," He managed to say in an unbroken whisper. John looked at Sherlock's thin finger poking his arm in the same spot where he could still feel searing pain from time to time, even though all the senses in the skin were dead. The blood on Sherlock's finger smeared onto the scar, and John had to shut his eyes. He couldn't look at it, not with blood on it. It made him remember the feeling, the pain, the burning pain, the blood, the heat on the sand as he fell. Sherlock, even in his mildly concussed state, understood what John was feeling and wiped the blood away with a clean finger, and let his hand fall to his side.

"Let me, uh," John coughed. "Grab the, uhm, gauze, and I'll clean you up."

Sherlock didn't reply, but he could feel Sherlock's eyes burning holes through his shoulder. He had never shown Sherlock his scar because he knew that Sherlock would want to know everything about it, to examine the scarring, to see what kind of bullet made the hole, everything that John wanted to forget about. He was glad when Sherlock focussed his eyes on the ceiling. He didn't want Sherlock to see his other scars.

John handed Sherlock a wad of gauze. "Hold it to your head," He instructed. Sherlock put the gauze on the wound on his head, and lightly held it in place. John applied some antiseptic to the wound on Sherlock's ribs, which made the younger man wince. "Sorry," He mumbled, taping gauze to his chest. He fetched his medical kit from the shaving cabinet, and pulled out a small needle and thread. The head wound wasn't badly deep, but deep enough that it needed more than the already red gauze in Sherlock's hand.

John knelt beside Sherlock, and shooed his hand away. He grabbed a washcloth, and wiped more blood away before he began stitching up the wound. Sherlock winced again. The entire situation reminded him of being in the war again, stitching up friends who were ambushed or hit roadside bombs. It wasn't as dire, but the urgency to get the job done quickly and done right. "Just a little bit more."

"My head hurts," Sherlock whined. John couldn't help but smile. He sounded like a six year old, not like the genius he was. Actually, Sherlock probably was a genius at six.

"You have a concussion," John said, wiping more blood away before he continued with his stitching. "Your head will hurt for a while."

"How do you-"

"I am a doctor, Sherlock. I can tell," John cut him off. Sherlock remained quiet, and only winced now and again as John moved the needle through Sherlock's skin. He tried to do it quickly so it wouldn't last long. As John finished up the stitch, Sherlock let out a bit of a sigh. "Did they hurt your legs at all?"

"Kicked... no blood," Sherlock said. He sounded so distantly, so tired.

"Do you think you can walk?" John asked. Sherlock didn't offer a reply. John helped Sherlock stand up, and then eventually into a standing position. He looped his arm around Sherlock's waist, and let the taller man rest most of his weight on John. Slowly but surely, Sherlock hobbled his way downstairs to his room. John tried to ignore the fact that only half an hour ago, he had been in the shower having a fairly good wank to thoughts of the same man he was helping standing up, and how nice Sherlock's weight felt against him given the circumstances.

"Thank you," Sherlock said once they were at the end of the stairs.

"That's why you let me move in with you, yeah?" John smiled as he guided him to Sherlock's bedroom. "A doctor just in case you need a quick stitch in the middle of the night."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and shook his head as John opened up his bedroom door. "Not at all."

"Oh, come on, part of you must have thought it was a good idea," John kidded. He didn't want to turn on the light; it would hurt Sherlock's head. The moonlight from outside was dim, but he could see the basic shape of Sherlock's bed.

"I didn't think of it, actually," Sherlock mumbled as they shuffled to his bed. "I just liked you from the moment I saw you. Thought you were interesting," He admitted.

"Yeah, real interesting," John smirked. He sat Sherlock down on the bed, and looked at his friend. "Get some rest, alright?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, and lay down in his bed. As John turned his back, he heard Sherlock's zipper unzip, some rustling, and then a distinct flop. John turned his head, and saw Sherlock's pants sitting in a sad pile on the floor. Sherlock was only in a pair of black boxer briefs, a stark contrast to his porcelain skin. He was angrily feeling for his blankets. John turned around, and walked back to the bed. Silently, he gently pushed Sherlock back so his head hit the pillow softly, and pulled the blankets from the foot of the bed up to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock only blinked at him. "Still interesting," He said.

"Get some sleep," John instructed.

"Still bloody interesting," Sherlock mumbled, and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. John was sure he could hear Sherlock softly snoring before he even shut the door.

* * *

**A.N.**

MERRY CHRISTMAS. YOU ALL GET SOME MILD PLOT DEVELOPMENT! YOU DESERVE IT FOR STICKING AROUND FOR **9 BLOODY CHAPTERS **and not having ANY SEXYTIMES AT ALL.  
You all are wonderful.  
I would give you all some of the cupcakes I'm baking right now, but the internet is just weird and doesn't let me do that. **  
**


	10. Disappointment

Pulsating pain ran through Sherlock's head as he opened his eyes. He groaned, and quickly shut them once more. He pulled the blanket over his head, and wearily opened his eyes again. The pain wasn't as bad, but his head was still in awful pain. His entire body was in awful pain. For a moment, he wondered what he did, but then it clicked back to him. He had gotten to the latest crime scene. A woman, badly butchered as a religious sacrifice. There were only four gangs active in London who still did religious offerings, but most of them stuck with cattle in the modern days. There was one who was considered inactive by the police, but Sherlock had worked on a case nearly five years ago of the exact same manner, and it was traced back to the same gang Sherlock investigated last night.

Sherlock had made two fatal mistakes: he didn't bring a weapon, and he didn't have John. John would had been his sense of reason to not go, to wait until he had better evidence, or at least warn Lestrade despite Sherlock's refusal. The last thought made Sherlock smile. John.

Speaking of which. He remembered following a member of the gang for nearly seventeen blocks when he got ambushed. It happened quickly, and quite painfully. He had been trailed by another gang member. Sherlock wasn't sure why his brain wasn't functioning that night, but it really wasn't. On any other night, he would of noticed. He wouldn't have been beaten to a pulp. He laid silently and stilly after the first fourty-five seconds, and after two minutes they gave up and split up into the night. Sherlock waited another two minutes before he stumbled to his feet, and began to make his way back home to Baker Street. He remembered praying that John was awake, at home, or in a light sleep. He collapsed onto the door. The pain was too much. John opened the door, and he fell into John's arms. John cleaned him up, stitched him up, and even tucked him into bed. Sherlock felt a warm sensation spread through his body. He was so grateful for that man and everything he did for Sherlock.

Sherlock heard the door open, and the sound of John's feet against the floor made him smile under the blanket. A gentle sound of glass against wood suggested tea, and the thump of something else... Sherlock's head hurt too much to guess. He heard John walk to the other side of his bed, and shut the curtains. Sherlock lowered the blanket from his head, and managed to keep his eyes open. The room was much darker than it was, but still light enough to see everything.

"How are you feeling?" John asked as he moved back to the dresser. Sherlock eyed his plaid pajama pants and bare torso.

"Like hell," Sherlock's voice was gravelly to his own ears.

"Mint tea," John held up the mug. Sherlock eyed John's black medical kit beside the tea. "I'm going to check your injuries, see if I do need to take you to a hospital."

"Why didn't you last night?"

"I don't think that they're that serious, so I didn't think a hospital was needed," John set the tea on Sherlock's bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "This is just to see if any of the bruising is anything more serious. It probably isn't, but I want to be sure."

"Alright," Sherlock slowly sat up, and rested his back on the cool wooden headboard behind him. He reached over for the hot mug of tea, and took in a sharp breath as John pulled the gauze off his ribs. He looked down at the mess on his chest before he took a refreshing sip of tea. The cut on his chest was dark red, and radiated pain. The area around the cut was a sharp pink colour, and after a second the cut started to bleed again. John mumbled a curse, and dabbed some clean gauze over the cut. Sherlock slowly drank tea and watched as John looked into the cut, investigated it, looking at it with such intensity that made Sherlock shiver. John looked up, and Sherlock felt momentarily speechless. "A bit cold, sorry," Sherlock lied.

"S'alright," John went back down to staring at the cut. Why had Sherlock shivered? He watched John look at the cut the same way Sherlock looked at a crime scene. It was fascinating to watch, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. All he knew was that the look in John's eye was marvellous.

Sherlock remembered feeling the scar on John's shoulder last night. The feeling was something that Sherlock had never really experienced before. He had felt peoples' scars before, mostly because they were dead, but this was different. This time the scar belonged to John and he could feel blood pumping under the rippled skin. Sherlock winced again as John put more antiseptic on the cut.

"Sorry," John apologized. "I probably should have warned you. This stuff stings," He held up a white bottle and a bloodied cotton ball that Sherlock never noticed he grabbed.

"No, no, it's fine," Sherlock took another drink of tea. He watched John dap more antiseptic on his cut. He was so focussed. Sherlock sometimes forgot that polite, well-mannered John was a doctor that was used to seeing limbs falling off men, and stitching them back together by a dim lamp in the middle of the desert. Perhaps not all the time, but it must have had to fascinate John for him to decide he wanted to be a doctor.

Sherlock eyed John's scar again. The skin was a shockingly dark pink colour that was smooth, yet puckered. His eyes wandered along John's exposed torso as John taped more gauze to Sherlock's chest. His torso was less firm as it used to be. Sherlock had seen bare strips of John's stomach as he raised his arms and such things, and John looked softer than he did back then. Light blonde hair started at his bellybutton and travelled down to the waistband of his pants. Sherlock momentarily wondered how the hair looked under the waistband.

"How's your head?" John asked, taking his warm hands off Sherlock's ribs. It broke Sherlock out of his trance.

"Sore," Sherlock looked up at John. "The stitches hurt."

John smirked, and walked over to the other side of the bed. "I figured you could handle it like a big boy. It was only four."

"Alright, next time you get a head wound, I'll give you four stitches without warning," Sherlock said bitterly, then took another sip of his tea. John made amazing tea, it was ridiculous. Sherlock could never make tea that tasted half as good as John's. That was why he always made John make the tea.

John sat on the edge of the bed, and set his kit beside him. "I've been through worse than four stitches to the head," He said distantly. "And I took it like a big boy," He smirked at Sherlock. "I'll give you a 'I made it out the Doctor's office' sticker I got in my bag. Or a balloon. Or a sucker. I have some more stickers, actually, for all ages."

"Shut it," Sherlock shut his eyes. He didn't have to have them open to hear John's triumphant smile. He felt John push his hair back, and then the faint warmth of his breath on his forehead. Sherlock opened his eyes, and was face to face with John's scar. Sherlock saw that no hair follicles were left, only scar tissue. His eyes drifted along John's collarbone, and saw different scars lower down. Two inch blade entry scar, some different circular scars that could of been numerous things. An inch graze scar on the side of his chest, which looked like another bullet. Sherlock wanted to know how John got them all. He knew about the shoulder injury as soon as he met John, but these... these new ones were all different stories that Sherlock didn't know the back-story behind. He could have figured it out if his head wasn't in pounding pain.

"Just ask," John said, dabbing some tissue on the stitches. Sherlock's eyes drifted upwards to see John's face. He was focussed on the stitches. He taped a new piece of gauze over the stitches, and then looked at Sherlock. "You've been staring at my scars. What do you want to know about them?" John asked Sherlock.

"How you got them," Sherlock said. John sat back, and set the old, bloodied gauze on the sheets.

He first pointed to the scar on his side, the graze mark. "This one was a bullet. Just a graze, nothing truly horrible. I was out on the field stitching up someone and I got shot at. Didn't really notice until I got back to the medical tent and I was trailing blood behind me that belonged to me," Next was the blade entry. "This one was a stab from a knife. We were in a small Afghanistan town, and we weren't doing anything bad. I was getting into one of our cars, and someone came up to me and stabbed me. They tend to go after doctors," John scrunched his face at the memory. "If they wound the doctors, then the soldiers have nobody to stitch them up. The rest are just minor injuries from before. Fell off a swing-set and landed on a nail when I was six, scratched myself, was cooking bacon drunk in uni and the grease burnt me," John smirked, and patted Sherlock's thigh. "Now let's see the damage on your legs, yeah?"

Sherlock drank more tea as John moved Sherlock's blanket off him with a sigh Sherlock didn't understand. He nearly jumped as John put his hands on his leg. He watched as John moved his hands thoroughly around Sherlock's legs, mumbling various things to himself as he did so. Sherlock could see bruising on his legs, and he wondered how bad it would feel to walk. At that moment he didn't want to get off of the bed. He shut his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of John's hands on his legs. His hands were steady, sure of themselves, and warm. Really warm.

"Well, nothing serious. Just some bruising, some bad bruising mind you. It's going to be a pain to walk for a couple days, which means you may have to hold off on catching your murderous killers for a bit."

"But-" Sherlock was about to protest, but the stern face Jon had made him stop.

"Sherlock, no. You can wait for a few days unless you want to hurt yourself even more," John said strictly. Sherlock blinked at him. "Doctor's orders, if you will," John said with a slight grin.

"Can I at least call Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

"Later."

Sherlock blinked again. He wasn't sure why John didn't want him taking to Lestrade now. "Did you order me food last night?"

John laughed, and Sherlock didn't know why. "Yeah, I'll go get it."

"Can you get me some more tea?" Sherlock asked, holding out his mug.

"You'll get only this morning of getting this kind of shit out of me," John sighed, taking the mug from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock watched as John walked out of his room. Sherlock felt another wave of appreciation for John, and felt warmth spread through him as he pulled his blankets back up over his body. Sherlock hadn't had someone take care of him with such care since he was a child and he caught chickenpox. His nanny never let him out of her sight for more than ten minutes.

John arrived back in the room with a mug of tea and a container of Chinese food in one hand, and a separate mug of tea in the other. He set his mug down on the counter, and then set the tea and the food down on Sherlock's bedside table. "What are you so happy about?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

John took a long drink of his own tea. "You have a stupid grin on your face. Most people are usually upset when they're beat up. Apparently you enjoyed it," John smirked.

"Let's not talk of kinks now, John. Hardly the appropriate time, although the place is presumably appropriate. Just reminiscing old memories," Sherlock waved his hand, taking hold of his Chinese food.

"Yeah?" John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock bit back a smirk at the flush on John's cheeks. He liked seeing how he could make John feel flustered.

"My nanny. Wonderful woman, last person to take good care of me until today," Sherlock wound a forkful of noodles into his mouth. Sherlock chewed thoroughly, enjoying how good Chinese food always tasted better the next day.

"Of course you had a nanny," John laughed, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"Wonderful woman," Sherlock sighed. "I miss her," Sherlock admitted. "She died when I was fourteen. She was an old woman, it was natural causes. She was like a mother to me. She would sit through hours of me playing violin and actually point out errors I made. Mother was always far to busy, and Father..." Sherlock shut his eyes. "Father liked to listen to me play. Still does."

"How come you never talk about your family?" John asked. "Besides Mycroft, I mean."

Sherlock shrugged. "Both lead busy lives. Not much to talk about them. I am sort of the disappointment in the family," Sherlock blurted, and had no reason why he said such things. He felt his face flush red, and he took another bite of food to silence anymore things he was about to blurt out to John.

John looked at Sherlock with a befuddled expression. "Disappointment? How could your parents be disappointed with you?"

Sherlock swallowed his food, and rolled his head side to side. "Can we forget that I said anything?"

"No, certainly not," John took a sip of tea.

Sherlock sighed. "Mother and Father wanted me to be a violinist, hence the violin," He waved to the corner of his bedroom where his violin was propped against the wall. "They knew I was smart, but they figured since Mycroft was already the brains of the family that they wanted me to focus more on violin than my mind. I... I did enjoy it, I was never pressured to get the same sort of grades as Mycroft was, although I was expected to do exceptionally well in school. The pressure was shifted to my violin. They would have me in lessons for hours a day and they expected me to be practicing when I was home. I grew to detest it, and I didn't go to a music university like they wanted. That almost got the trust fund cut off, and I know a portion of the estate in the will went back to Mycroft because of it. They eventually got used to it, but now and again they make the remark of how I could be world-famous for my violin."

"You are remarkable at it," John said.

"I know," Sherlock said which earned a smile from John. "I enjoy it more now. It soothes me. I play it because I want to, not because I'm expected to."

John nodded slowly. "It's a bit sad, innit? I would never do something like that to a child."

"Do something like what?" Sherlock asked.

"Force them so hard to do something that they love that they end up hating it and resenting it," John shook his head. "It's a bit sad you had to deal with that."

Sherlock blinked. "I suppose so," He never thought of it like that. "Are you pitying me?" Sherlock asked. It was the one thing he absolutely hated was being pitied by other people, especially other people he respected as much as John. For a second he wondered if he respected anybody was much as he did John.

"I feel bad that you had to go through that as a child," John shrugged.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his bed. "I've never told anybody that before," Sherlock admitted. He really hadn't. He found it too embarrassing to tell anybody else, and most people he knew would feel either give him such a sad expression and say how awful his parents were, when they were certainly good parents despite their quirks, or take a sick pleasure out of knowing Sherlock wasn't the light of his parents' eyes. "Can we keep it between you and I?"

John smiled. "Of course." John patted Sherlock's thigh, and stood up. "I should probably go get dressed." Sherlock frowned. He didn't want John to leave. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted John to stay with him. He wanted John to remain seated on his bed, and talk to him about whatever John wanted to talk about. Sherlock didn't want him to go away. "I'll be back in a couple minutes," He yawned.

Sherlock felt a smile begin to grow on his face, so he took a sip of tea. "Alright."

* * *

**A.N.**

Next chapter, guys... next chapter. It'll be up within a few days because this is more like a continuation of the last chapter. The next chapter... we may be getting somewhere... **  
**


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